All my Roads Lead to You
by Eggsbenni221
Summary: There's trouble in paradise as the Darcy family embarks on a summer holiday. Set about 13 years after Mark and Bridget's marriage; features original characters Anne, Emma, Cordelia, and Bertie the cat
1. Chapter 1

All my Roads Lead to You

by Eggsbenni221

Disclaimer: the author does not own these characters; they are the property of Helen Fielding. NO copyright infringement is intended.

Part 1

"I don't regret a single broken heart

That taught me what love is and what it's not.

Someone must have planned our two paths to cross.

I couldn't see it then, but I was never lost.

'Cause all my roads have led me to

This night, this love I share with you.

And though the road was never smooth

Life has made me someone who

Could be the right someone for you."- Colin Ray, "The Right Someone for You"

Mark dropped his attaché case beside the front door and rolled his shoulders several times in an endeavor to work the knots out of them. Wistfully he registered the uncharacteristic silence that greeted him rather than the usual opening and slamming of doors and the pattering of footsteps throughout the house. He knew Bridget was less than thrilled at the number of times work had necessitated his absence well beyond supper during the last several weeks, but he hoped soon to explain that away.

The sitting-room was dimly lit; a small lamp on a low table cast a yellowish glow over Bridget as she lay curled beneath a blanket, a book dangling loosely from one hand, her cheek cradled in the other. Mark stood gazing down at her for several moments, his face relaxing into the first genuine smile of the day. As he gently tugged the book from her relaxed fingers and bent to drop a kiss on her temple, Bridget's eyes opened. She blinked against the light and blearily pulled him into focus.

"Mark," she said groggily. "It's about time. I wondered where you were."

"I'm sorry, love. I know I'm rather late. It couldn't be helped," Mark said gently, draping his coat over a nearby chair and reaching to undo the knot in his tie before bending to kiss his wife. She raised herself on her elbows to receive his kiss; her lips just touched his before she pulled back.

"This is the fourth time this week," she complained, a flash of annoyance in her eyes as she spoke.

Mark sighed. "I know. I would have called, but I just—"

"Lost track of time," Bridget finished. "What time is it anyway?" she asked, stifling a yawn.

"Nearly ten," answered Mark. Tenderly he reached to brush the hair back from Bridget's face. "You needn't have waited up for me if you were tired," he said gently.

"It's all right," Bridget replied grudgingly.

"I'm glad you did though," Mark said with a smile, "even if you didn't manage to keep your vigil."

"If you want a warm welcome, come home earlier next time," said Bridget.

"Point taken."

Bridget rose and picked up her empty wine glass. "I think I'll just have another glass of wine," she said, moving toward the kitchen. "Can I get you one?"

Mark shook his head. "I think I need something a bit stronger." He crossed the room to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a generous measure of scotch. Dropping onto the sofa, he leaned his head wearily on his hand and closed his eyes, trying to push away the image of the pile of papers that had kept him at chambers well past his usual time. Setting his drink aside, he yawned and slumped against the cushions, thinking longingly of bed and wondering at the same time if he even had the strength to move. Bridget returned within moments and sat down beside Mark. Her expression softened as she looked at him, and her hands immediately went to work rubbing away the kinks in his back. He felt the heat of her fingertips beneath his shirt and barely suppressed a moan of pleasure.

"You look like you've had a rough day," murmured Bridget, her hands sliding up to kneed Mark's shoulders.

"You have no idea," he answered. "I'm just glad to see the end of it. What about you? How goes the work of my favorite face of British current affairs?"

"Exceedingly uninteresting at the moment, actually. I think I need a hot human rights story to liven things up a bit." Mark laughed.

"I might be able to put you in touch with a source," he said. "You should know, however, that he requires compensation for his tips." Bridget slid closer and wrapped her arms around his back, leaning in to trail her lips along the line of his jaw.

"That could be arranged," she whispered. Mark twisted round to face her and tilted his head until his mouth hovered just inches above hers.

"I also happen to know that he prefers to be paid in regular installments." He slid into Bridget's embrace with the familiarity born of years of knowing the intimate language of one another's bodies. As he kissed her, he savored the delicious mixture on her lips—the crisp bite of the chardonnay's lingering aftertaste mingled with that undercurrent of sweetness that was Bridget's distinctive flavor. Just as Bridget raised her arms around his neck and strained him closer to deepen the kiss, they heard a rustle at the top of the stairs. Mark mumbled a curse and hastily dragged his mouth away from Bridget's before glancing toward the source of the noise. Their seven year-old daughter, Emma, stood leaning over the banister, gazing inquisitively down at her parents.

"Emma," Bridget said sternly as she and Mark broke apart. "What are you doing out of bed? It's late."

"I heard Daddy come in, and I couldn't sleep," explained Emma. Mark smiled.

"Have you had another bad dream?" he asked.

"Sort of," said Emma.

"Hmm, you know what? I think 'sort of' just means someone didn't want to go to sleep. Am I right?"

Emma shrugged her small shoulders. "Maybe," she admitted.

"What's going on?" demanded another voice. "I'm trying to read." A door down the hall opened, and twelve year-old Anne came to stand behind her sister, a paperback novel tucked beneath her arm. Husband and wife exchanged a half-longing, half-exasperated look.

"Well, isn't this a lovely little welcoming committee," said Mark, discretely disentangling himself from Bridget. "What are you two waiting for, then? Come down and give your father a hug." Two pairs of bare feet sped down the stairs, and Mark felt a warm glow that he saw reflected in Bridget's eyes as she watched their daughters running into his outstretched arms. The girls were their mother in miniature—blonde-haired and blue-eyed. Yet while Emma's incessant chatter and lack of an internal editor mirrored Bridget's personality, Anne had inherited Mark's quiet composure, his keen mind, and eyes that, however much they resembled her mother's in color, held her father's piercing gaze that saw all and spoke more than words. Emma crawled into Mark's lap as he resettled on the sofa, and Anne took her favorite position at her father's feet, resting her head against his knee. Mark reached down and laced his fingers through hers while his free hand stroked Emma's curls.

"So, what kept my Emma awake?" he asked.

"I wanted to know something," replied Emma. Mark pinched her dimpled cheek and exchanged a knowing look with Bridget. Emma's bedtime questions had become a familiar stalling ritual ever since she'd learned to talk.

"I'm sure. What is it this time?"

"What would happen if there wasn't any gravity?"

"Hmm, I like that question." Mark rested his chin on the top of her head as he considered his answer. "You see, gravity is a force, a bit like an invisible wall round the planet, that keeps us and everything around us in place, so," he paused dramatically, "if there were no gravity, I wouldn't be able to hold you. You'd just float away." He tickled Emma's ribs, eliciting a fit of giggles that warmed his heart far more than the scotch had done. Attracted by the commotion, the family's cat, Bertie, wandered into the room and fixed Mark with a reproachful stare before leaping into Bridget's lap. The cat had been a Christmas gift for the children several years earlier—a decision Mark still claimed to have made under a serious lapse of judgment.

"Dad, why don't you like Bertie?" asked Anne, freeing her hand from her father's and reaching over to ruffle the cat's ears.

"Because he's a nuisance," said Mark.

"He isn't, Daddy," protested Anne, kissing Bertie on the nose.

"Easy for you to say. He hasn't decided he prefers sleeping on _your_ chest to every other available spot in the house."

"I think it's sweet," said Bridget.

"You would," Mark grumbled.

To change the subject, he bent and retrieved the book that lay in Anne's lap.

"Interesting choice," he observed, turning over the cover of what turned out to be Jane Eyre. "For school?"

"Annie's teacher sent it home with her as a summer holiday recommendation," explained Bridget. "She says Annie's reading level is quite advanced."

Mark gently combed his fingers through his daughter's hair. "That's my girl, taking after your father."

"Excuse me," interrupted Bridget huffily.

With a chuckle, Mark reached over to pat his wife's knee. "My apologies, love. Didn't mean to offend you."

"Daddy, if you and Mummy love each other so much, why are you always teasing her?" asked Emma, tilting her head up to gaze at Mark with her inquisitive blue eyes.

"I've been wondering the same thing for years, Em," said Bridget. Mark smiled.

"Teasing is just one of the ways mums and dads show affection," he explained. Bridget rolled her eyes and muttered something under her breath that Mark suspected wasn't fit for the children's ears.

"I don't think Mum agrees with you," commented Anne, reaching up to tug her book from her father's grasp.

"I should think not," said Bridget.

"Well," said Mark, glancing down at Anne as she reopened her novel, "You've certainly come a long way from the days of little Miss Whoops." Anne smiled at the recollection of the accident-prone storybook character she'd loved when she was younger.

"Which you only read to her as a cautionary tale against turning into her mother," chimed in Bridget.

Mark manufactured an injured expression. "I've never called you anything less than graceful and coordinated, darling." Bridget scowled. Unable to resist, Mark bent and chastely touched his lips to his wife's, triggering another round of giggles from Emma while Anne discretely averted her gaze.

"Daddy," suddenly piped up Emma, "Have you told Mummy yet?"

Tensing at the radical shift in the conversation, Mark endeavored to maintain an expression of composure. "Told Mummy what?" he asked, pointedly avoiding eye contact with Bridget.

"You know," whispered Emma conspiratorially. "The surprise." Bridget's gaze snapped onto her husband.

"Mark? What's Emma talking about? What surprise?"

'Shit,' thought Mark. Desperate to divert Emma's attention, he cast a pleading look at his eldest daughter. Anne reached up and poked her sister in the ribs.

"Shut it, Em," she said exasperatedly. Emma yelped.

"Annie, stop that," Bridget scolded, her eyes still fixed on Mark's inscrutable expression.

"You said you were going to tell her!" persisted Emma, bouncing up and down on her father's lap.

"I think it's time you were in bed," Mark said quickly.

"But you said—" began Emma.

Fighting a smile, Mark placed a finger over her lips. "Hush, child. You talk entirely too much. Straight upstairs now and into bed, both of you."

"But—"

"No 'buts'. Annie, take your sister upstairs, and this nuisance of a cat too, please." Mark pressed a kiss to Emma's brow before she slid sulkily from his lap. Anne leaned in to hug her parents; then shepherded her sister upstairs with Bertie in toe, winking at Mark as she left the room.

Alone again, Mark pulled Bridget into his arms and bent to kiss her, but Bridget placed a hand against his chest.

"Not so fast, Mr. Darcy. What's this surprise I know nothing about?"

"Good God, Bridget. You're as bad as Emma," Mark admonished, but his eyes were twinkling. "All right, I was going to tell you tonight anyway. The summer holiday starts for the girls next week, and I know you always like to arrange to have a bit of time home with them during the first few days." Bridget narrowed her eyes at him.

"Yeeees?" she said suspiciously.

"Well, I thought, perhaps, I've not taken my family on a real vacation in—"

"Ever," interrupted Bridget.

"Well, yes, something like that. Anyway, I thought perhaps we might—" the rest of Mark's sentence was swallowed by Bridget's kiss as she launched herself at him, hugging him fiercely.

"Mark! Do you really mean it?"

Mark reached up to play with the ends of Bridget's hair. "Well, if I didn't, I'd feel bound to deliver now after that rather exuberant display of gratitude."

"Can you really afford to take the time away from work?" Bridget asked seriously.

"Not exactly. That's partly why I've been working so late this past week," Mark confessed. "It'll all be worth it though," he added gently, reaching for Bridget's hand. She smiled, giving his fingers a brief squeeze.

"How did you manage to keep it a secret from me?" she asked.

"By not telling Emma about it until the last possible moment," admitted Mark. "But I did tell Anne; she gets most of the credit for the idea, actually."

"That child has you wrapped around her finger," laughed Bridget. Mark drew her close again, resting his chin on the top of her head.

"A trait she inherited from her mother, I think."

"So, what exotic locale are you whisking your family off to then?" asked Bridget as she toyed with the buttons on Mark's shirt.

"My my, we are inquisitive," returned Mark. "I'd planned to keep you in the dark a bit longer," he said, smiling as Bridget's mouth twisted into a predictable pout.

"How shall I know what to pack if you don't tell me where I'm going?" she protested.

"Hush, love." Mark placed a finger over her lips. "If you must know, how does Monte Carlo suit you?" He allowed himself a moment to savor the expression of wide-eyed delight that lit Bridget's face. "Anne had her heart set on visiting the seaside. Naturally I insisted on someplace that offered educational attractions as well. In the end, we found a fair compromise."

Bridget leaned in to brush her lips over the hollow of his throat. "It sounds wonderful," she whispered. "I can't wait."

"In fact," said Mark, "I think I can arrange immediate transport to our first guided tour." Getting swiftly to his feet, he scooped Bridget up in his arms and bounded up the stairs, depositing her gently on their bed a moment later. Fetching his laptop, he slipped one arm around her to cradle her against him as he accessed the websites featuring descriptions of the hotel and local points of interest.

"The Hotel Metropole?" asked Bridget, squinting at the computer screen.

"Five stars," added Mark, kissing the top of her head. "Only the best for my family." He turned back to his laptop. "Let's see, now. There's the Grimaldi Forum, of course—well worth a visit—and I'm sure the girls would love to see the Palais Princier."

"Hang on," interrupted Bridget, snatching the laptop from Mark and scrutinizing the page more closely. "A private beach and a poolside bar open for drinks?"

Mark chuckled. "Well, yes, I noted that in my research as a point of interest."

"You anticipate all my wants," murmured Bridget, tilting her head up to peck him on the lips.

"I do seem to have developed quite a knack for that," he agreed. He reached up to switch off the bedside lamp, and Bridget snuggled beneath his arm.

"I love you," she whispered.

Mark pressed a kiss to her brow. "I don't blame you," he answered, and, with one arm still curled around her, he drifted off to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Part 2

Bridget awoke slowly, stretching her limbs and relishing the softness of the Egyptian cotton sheets against her skin. She lay still for several minutes, her gaze sleepily following the shaft of sunlight that filtered in through a chink in the curtains and played across Mark's face. His expression was peaceful and untroubled in its quiet repose—more so than she'd seen it in recent memory. Bridget was glad he'd finally managed to take a bit of time away from work to spend with her and the girls—even if only for a few days. She smiled at the recollection of the previous day, sharing with Mark in the simple joy of watching their daughters' delight as they exclaimed over the rich furnishings in the hotel, gazed in rapture at the view of the city from the balcony, and even Emma's insistence on a bubble bath. The intense combination of bubbles and Emma's effervescence had been a bit much for even their sheik bathroom to withstand, and despite Bridget's attempt to tidy up, the cleaning staff still had a bit of a job ahead of them that morning. Absently she ran her palm up and down Mark's arm. As she did, his eyes opened, his gaze unfocused as it rested upon her.

"I didn't mean to wake you," murmured Bridget apologetically. In response Mark offered a sleepy smile and mumbled something inaudible into her hair as he wrapped her in his arms and dropped off to sleep again with a contented sigh. Bridget snuggled closer to him and rested her head against his chest. Lulled by the gentle rhythm of his breathing, she'd just slid back into a doze herself when the bedsprings gave a violent jolt.

"Mum! Dad!"

Bridget's eyes popped open; Emma knelt in the center of the large bed, bouncing up and down in feverish excitement and apparently oblivious to her sister's attempts to restrain her. Bridget stretched her arms above her head and pulled herself into a sitting position, suppressing a smile at her daughter's exuberance.

"Hush, Em. You'll wake your father."

"I rather think it's a bit late for that," croaked Mark, attempting unsuccessfully to glare at his family through one half-open eye.

"It's morning, Dad," announced Emma, still bouncing persistently in the center of the bed.

Mark smiled groggily. "So it is, yes. Thank you for the bulletin."

"I think she wants you to get up," Anne pointed out helpfully.

"I surmised as much, thank you," replied Mark, twining an arm around Bridget's waist and pulling her back down beside him. They lay together for several minutes, watching the expressions of eager anticipation that flitted across the girls' faces.

"There's so much to see," exclaimed Anne, dropping onto the edge of the bed and opening a guidebook. "We should try to catch the changing of the guards at the palace."

"The shopping is quite good too, I hear," added Bridget.

"What's the muse-musee oceanic?" asked Emma, attempting to peer over her sister's shoulder at the guidebook.

"The Musee de Oceanographique," corrected Mark with a laugh. "It's a very famous aquarium and marine museum. Actually, we really must pay a visit if we can. It's quite fascinating. Emma, you'll love the penguin display."

Bridget rolled her eyes and yawned ostentatiously. "Really, I can think of a far more entertaining aquatic experience."

"Such as?" asked Mark, raising an eyebrow.

Bridget offered him a surreptitious wink. "We could just play with the hand-held pulsating shower head."

"Really, Bridget," Mark said sternly, the corners of his mouth twitching. "You ought to set a better example for the children."

Under cover of the bedclothes, Bridget lightly trailed her fingertips along Mark's arm, offering him a coy smile. "I never behave when I'm on holiday."

They did in fact visit the Musee de Oceanographique, where Emma exclaimed delightedly over the penguins as predicted, and both girls were captivated by the variety of tropical marine life and the artistic renderings of sea creatures displayed throughout the museum

They wandered along the Avenue Saint-Martin, admiring the magnificent cliff-side gardens and peeked in at the frescos in the lobby of the Casino de Paris where, much to Bridget's amusement, Mark treated the girls to a lecture on the perils of gambling. Enchanted with all they saw, only when Mark realized they were in danger of missing their dinner reservation did they return to the hotel to dress.

"I could really do with a glass of wine," said Bridget as she slipped into a white, summery dress that flowed around her ankles.

"There's a revelation," chuckled Mark, appearing behind her as she scrutinized her reflection in the bathroom mirror. "May I?" he whispered, taking the silver clip she'd just reached for and gathering her hair in one hand before sliding the clip into place with the other. As he lifted her hair, he bent and brushed his lips along the nape of her neck, and her skin tingled at the touch. Slightly flustered, she bent to adjust the strap on one of her sandals, and when she straightened, Emma stood framed in the doorway, her wide, blue eyes fixed on her mother.

"You're so pretty, Mum," she murmured.

"I quite agree," said Mark, encircling Bridget's waist with his arm and drawing her close.

Bridget twisted round to peck her husband's cheek. "Whatever it is you want, by the way, the answer is yes."

Mark smiled. "Hmm, I'll bear it in mind," he said with a wink, then disentangled himself gently and glanced down at his watch before reaching for his jacket. "But we can discuss that later. Right now, I think I have a dinner date with three very lovely ladies, and I don't want to be late."

"Dad, this is incredible!" breathed Anne, gazing up at the panoply of stars clearly visible overhead, the roof of le Grill de L' Hotel Paris being traditionally slid back to reveal a stunning view during the summer.

"It really is magnificent," agreed Bridget, reaching over to brush her fingertips across the back of Mark's hand.

"I'm glad you approve," he said gently.

"Emma, you can stop staring at the chocolate mousse at that other table and concentrate on your own food," said Bridget, casting her youngest daughter a stern look.

Anne rolled her eyes.

"Right, mum, because you haven't been eyeing it at all," she teased, while Mark attempted to hide his smile behind the rim of his wine glass.

"I'm not looking at that," protested Emma, jabbing her finger in the air.

"Emma," Mark said quietly, "Don't point. It isn't very ladylike."

"But daddy, look," insisted Emma, dropping her voice to a whisper. "That woman over there—I think she keeps looking at you." Bridget attempted to follow Mark's gaze as it flitted in the direction Emma indicated, but he quickly withdrew it.

"I don't see anyone I recognize," he said smoothly.

As they lingered over their desserts, Emma paused half-way through her ice-cream to observe, "I hope Uncle Tom remembers to feed Bertie."

"He will, don't worry," Bridget assured her. "But just to be safe we can ring him up and remind him."

Anne deftly caught a drip of sorbet on the edge of her spoon. "I'm not so sure Uncle Tom knows what he's doing," she said seriously.

"Bertie will be fine," said Mark. "Although," he added, swallowing a mouthful of his crème brulee, "come to think of it, I'd be more concerned about Uncle Tom's survival skills than the cat's. I wonder if we shouldn't have invested in some sort of pet-sitter's insurance." Bridget aimed a playful kick at him under the table, making slightly harder contact with the heel of her shoe than she'd intended. "Bridget! That-that wasn't…necessary," Mark winced.

"Sorry about that," Bridget apologized. "I hadn't meant to do that quite so hard."

Mark grimaced. "Once again you've managed to comport yourself with your usual grace…or rather, lack thereof."

Suddenly over the girls' giggles, a cool, female voice was heard approaching their table. "Mark? Mark Darcy?" Bridget saw Mark's eyes widen in surprise as he turned in the direction of the voice. "Mark, is it really you?"

Mark stared in disbelief at the speaker for several moments before at last finding his voice. "Cordelia?" The woman who had glided over to the table was tall and slender with delicately chiseled features. Her lustrous, dark hair was swept back from her face in an elegant twist, and her bright hazel eyes were fixed upon Bridget's husband with a look that Bridget could only have described as hungry.

Cordelia offered a dazzling smile and extended her hand. "Mark, this is such a delightful surprise! It's been far too long."

Having recovered his composure, Mark rose and took her offered hand, the reserve he had let slip in front of his family reappearing with such precision that Bridget fancied she heard a click as it slid into place. "Indeed, it's been quite a long time. You look well," he said pleasantly.

"As do you," replied Cordelia. "Same as ever. I'd have recognized you anywhere. Fancy meeting you here."

"Yes, family holiday," said Mark, placing a hand gently on Bridget's shoulder. "Allow me to introduce you to my wife, Bridget, and our daughters. This is Anne," he gestured toward her, "and this is Emma. Cordelia and I knew one another when I was at Cambridge," he explained to Bridget and the girls.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," said Bridget, extending a hand to Cordelia while keeping her gaze fixed resolutely on her husband, whose expression remained placidly unreadable. Cordelia turned her smile on Bridget and the children. "Such a beautiful family," she said, still addressing Mark, "and such lovely names," she added, beaming at Emma and Anne, who smiled shyly in return. "Quite Austenian, if I may say so." Bridget saw the corners of Mark's mouth twitch.

"Yes," he replied. "Our family has a rather, shall we say, healthy respect for Austen."

Cordelia gave a tinkling laugh, like ice clinking against crystal. "How very appropriate."

"So tell me," Mark said smoothly, "what have you been doing with yourself? You haven't been in Tibet all this time?"

"OH, of course not," replied Cordelia airily. "I staid for a few years as I'd intended, taught English; then came home, got married…" her smile flickered as her voice trailed off. "But you," she resumed, "I've heard all about you, of course, Mr. top notch human rights lawyer. Of course, we knew you'd make us all proud."

Bridget lost track of the conversation as she studied the woman standing before her, taking in the sharp lines and angularity of her form—not a curve or a hint of softness anywhere, and, Bridget noted with malicious satisfaction, her own breasts had been more developed when she was twelve. She resurfaced with a jolt when she suddenly heard Daniel Cleaver's name enter the conversation.

"I always did like Daniel," Cordelia was saying. "We used to have such fun. What ever became of him? What's he been doing with himself?" Mark's jaw tensed, and Bridget felt him stiffen beside her. Swiftly she slipped her hand beneath the table and laced her fingers through his. He acknowledged it with a gentle pressure, but kept his eyes fixed on Cordelia.

"Daniel and I have…lost track of one another," he said delicately, his hand tightening slightly on Bridget's as he spoke.

Cordelia looked briefly taken aback. "How unfortunate," she murmured. "You two were such great friends."

Mark was spared responding by the man who suddenly approached the table, tall and bespectacled.

"Dillie, darling, there you are."

"Arthur!" exclaimed Cordelia, turning toward him with another of her bright smiles, though her eyes, Bridget couldn't help noticing, remained fixed on Mark.

"Won't you introduce me to your friends?" asked Arthur. "Oh, of course. Mark, my husband, Arthur. Arthur, this is Mark Darcy. You've heard me mention him." The two men shook hands.

"A pleasure to meet you," Mark said cordially.

"Likewise," replied Arthur.

"Arthur's here to give a series of lectures at the Musee de Oceanographique," chimed in Cordelia, linking her arm through her husband's. "He's a professor of marine sciences. As he hasn't got teaching obligations this summer, we thought we'd just make a nice little holiday of it."

"How delightful," said Bridget.

Arthur's gaze swiveled in her direction, then rested on Mark before turning back to his wife. "Yes," he said coolly. "Dillie, we really ought to be getting back. I must organize my materials for tomorrow."

Cordelia nodded. "Of course." She turned back to Mark. "We won't keep you any longer, but it was lovely running into you. If you have time, we must try and meet up for a drink and catch up. We're at the Hotel Metropole." And with one airy wave of her neatly-manicured hand, she disappeared, leaving the family in a stunned silence.

Later that night, after the girls had fallen asleep, Bridget lay in bed, turning over the evening's events in her mind. Mark had not raised the subject of Cordelia at all during the remainder of the evening, and Bridget, taking her cue from him, had kept silent on the incident as well, curious though she was to pursue it. Now, listening to the sound of gently streaming water from the bathroom as Mark showered, she pictured Cordelia standing before them, a look of such burning intensity in her eyes that Bridget wondered how Mark had managed to maintain his cool composure when her own blood had begun to sizzle under that gaze. They'd known one another at Cambridge, Mark had said: how well, Bridget wondered. They had both known Daniel, and Cordelia certainly seemed like the type of woman Daniel might have spent the night with, but Mark? His passing comment about the nature of their acquaintance now seemed oddly evasive.

Half asleep, Bridget saw the bathroom light switch off and felt Mark peal back the duvet as he slid into bed beside her.

"Did you enjoy yourself today?" he asked in a whisper, brushing the hair back from her face and pressing a kiss to her temple.

"Yes," murmured Bridget.

Mark smiled and draped his arm across her shoulders to pull her close. "Anything the matter?" he inquired sleepily.

"Just tired," answered Bridget.

"Well, it's been an eventful day."

Bridget lay there for several moments, wondering whether or not to voice the question hovering on the tip of her tongue. Hesitantly, she rested a hand on her husband's arm. "Mark?"

"Mmm?"

"Mark, may I ask you something?"

"Yes, and I suspect I know what about."

Though she couldn't see his face in the darkness, Bridget could picture his amused smile. "You do?"

Mark chuckled. "Bridget, love, you're so unbelievably transparent."

"Fine," she said obstinately. "What is it then?"

"There's only one possible subject that could be keeping you awake at the moment," said Mark.

"And that is?" prompted Bridget.

"Cordelia." The sound of her name on his lips unsettled Bridget—like a discordant note in a familiar song. "Come, you aren't going to attempt to deny it, are you?" he asked when she remained silent.

Bridget hesitated. "I-no, of course not."

Mark sighed. "Well then, what is it you wish to know?"

"How did you know her?" Bridget asked finally.

"I told you. We met when I was at Cambridge." He paused, then added, "Daniel introduced us."

"Introduced you?" repeated Bridget. "Fixed you up, more like."

"I suppose so," said Mark.

Bridget turned onto her side to face him. "Why do you always have to be so evasive?"

"Fine, he fixed us up, all right?"

"And?" Bridget pressed.

"And what? Bridget, I don't know what you want me to tell you."

"Mark, you can be such an idiot sometimes. I mean, what happened?"

Mark sighed again. "I'll never understand this obsession you women have with knowing every detail of men's pasts."

"You're avoiding the question, Mark."

"Look," he said impatiently. "Nothing ever really came of the acquaintance. Cordelia was a year above Daniel and me."

"An older woman? How deliciously scandalous," said Bridget teasingly.

"Just a year," said Mark. "Don't be silly. Anyway, when I met her, she was planning to go off to Tibet to teach English. Things just didn't get off the ground. We never really got on. I don't know what I was thinking. I mean, she was a pretty girl, but-"

Bridget interrupted him with a derisive sniff. "Pretty? Of course you'd think so."

"You're jealous," said Mark.

"Hmph, why on Earth would I be jealous of her? Look at the size of her breasts."

"Jealous," Mark whispered, his lips very close to her ear. Bridget shivered as she felt his teeth graze the tip of her earlobe.

"I'm not," she insisted. "But if I catch you going near her, I'm dragging you back to the museum and throwing you to the sharks."

Mark laughed. "Duly noted."

"Not jealous," Bridget repeated in a whisper as Mark drew the duvet up around them and pressed a kiss to her cheek.

"Love you, Bridget," he mumbled drowsily as he drifted off, leaving her awake to contemplate their conversation.


	3. Chapter 3

Mark sank back into the plump sofa cushions with a sigh of contentment, a book open in his lap as he sipped at his café noisette and gazed absently out the hotel's coffee shop window. A smile played at his lips as he relived the past few days, wanting to permanently etch each moment into his memory. The family had unanimously declared the trip a success—their only complaint being how sorry they were to see it drawing to a close. They'd explored the city together, toured the prince's palace, the Grimaldi Forum, and the Monaco Cathedral; they'd spent lazy, sun-soaked afternoons by the pool or on the beach, Bridget snapping photos of every change of expression on the girls' faces. Mark had savored the luxury of natural rising—an indulgence he rarely allowed himself at home—of lying in bed and coming slowly awake to Bridget's feathery kisses or Emma's hair tickling his cheek as she slipped between her parents for a morning snuggle. Now, as he sat in solitude in the café while Bridget and the girls were off shopping for the afternoon, he promised himself to make more time for such moments.

He'd sought the café after leaving the women to their own devices, assuring them he'd have no difficulty amusing himself in the interval. He'd sat there for a time and used his mobile to quickly access his e-mail, and then settled down for an hour or two of quiet reading. Pausing in the act of turning a page, he glanced up as a shadow fell across his book to find Cordelia standing beside him.

"I hope I'm not intruding," she said quietly. "I saw you across the café and thought I'd come say hello." Mark hesitated, considering his response. "I won't disturb you," said Cordelia. "I just—"

"No, it's all right." Realizing his silence had appeared impolite, Mark cut across her apology.

"But where's your family?" inquired Cordelia, arching an eyebrow; her look of peaked interest didn't escape Mark's notice.

"Bridget and the girls have gone on a shopping expedition for the afternoon," he explained. "I thought I'd just take advantage of the temporary lull in the action." He pointed to the book in his lap.

"Peace and quiet must be hard to come by in your house, I imagine," observed Cordelia.

Mark shrugged. "Yes, well, some sacrifices are worth making."

"May I?" Cordelia gestured to the empty seat beside him.

"Go right ahead."

"I didn't realize you were still in Monte Carlo," said Cordelia, leaning back in her seat and crossing her long legs.

"We're leaving tomorrow," answered Mark.

"Have you enjoyed yourself?" she asked.

"Very much. With the demanding nature of my work, I'm not often able to spend this much uninterrupted time with my family. It's been wonderful."

"Your daughters seem like quite a handful," observed Cordelia.

Mark smiled. "Yes, they can be, but mostly they're a joy, and these are precious years."

Cordelia dropped her gaze as she murmured, "Arthur and I…we weren't able to have children. We tried for several years, but it just…wasn't meant to be, I suppose."

"I'm sorry," Mark said quietly.

Cordelia shrugged. "It wouldn't matter so much, except I know Arthur resents me for it."

"I'm sure he doesn't," said Mark automatically. "It isn't something you have any control over."

"Nonetheless, he does. Our marriage just hasn't been the same these last few years—not that it was ever anything marvelous to begin with."

"How did you meet?" Mark asked, more out of politeness than any genuine curiosity.

"At a friend's wedding," said Cordelia with a wry smile. "Terribly cliché, isn't it?"

"Not necessarily," said Mark. "Sometimes such things turn out rather well."

"It didn't for us. We just gravitated toward each other because we were alone. It was convenient. Anyway, it seemed perfect for a time; we were happy because we'd found someone to fill the empty spaces in our lives. I think we both expected a family would make it all worth while—be the sort of glue that would keep us together—but when we realized it wasn't to be for us, things just…disintegrated. I know he's been seeing other women. I can't say I blame him entirely; there isn't anything left for us, really, but it stings a bit just the same. We came on this trip partly to try to salvage what was left of our relationship, but I don't think it's going to work." She paused, then went on, "You probably didn't want to hear any of that."

"It's all right," Mark said gently, stealing a glance at his watch as he did. Bridget and the girls would probably be returning soon. Before he could think of a polite way to end the conversation, Cordelia took his hands in both of hers and squeezed gently.

"Thank you," she murmured, looking up into his face. "I didn't mean to unburden myself on you like that, but it felt good to tell someone."

"I'm…glad you feel better," said Mark.

As he opened his lips again to make an excuse, Cordelia exclaimed in a rush, "I still have your letter."

"My…my letter?" Mark repeated, perplexed.

Cordelia nodded. "Yes, the one you wrote me after I left. Have you forgotten?"

He hadn't, though he'd certainly tried to. Well did he remember that summer, just before his final year at Cambridge. After an especially rigorous term, Daniel, seeming to think that Mark had gotten ahead in his studies and behind in his shagging, had coaxed Mark into attending a party with him, where he'd introduced Mark to Cordelia before disappearing into a throng of female admirers. Never particularly adept at mingling, Mark had been surprised at how easily he'd managed to carry on a conversation with Cordelia and had spent much of the evening chatting comfortably with her. A shy, but not uncomfortable friendship had sprung from that evening's acquaintance; neither of them had expressed an interest in anything more serious, particularly with Cordelia leaving soon for a stint teaching English in Tibet. Then several weeks before her departure, her friends had thrown her a party to give her a send-off, and with a pang of guilt he recalled the feel of her body warm and soft against his, whispering between kisses that they mustn't—that they couldn't do what they were about to do; it was reckless, foolish, and did she really think it would end there?

'Just this once,' she'd murmured as she trailed her lips along the curve of his shoulder. 'Just one night.' And Mark, in a moment of uncharacteristic recklessness, his blood swirling with desire and his brain buzzing with far more alcohol than had been prudent, had given her what she'd asked. They'd corresponded in letters after she'd left, and despite her previous assurances, Mark read between the lines of carefully guarded language. Thinking it best not to give her false hope, he'd written to apologize for what had happened that night and to leave her in no doubt as to where he stood respecting his feelings toward her. After receiving a not-unexpected bitter reply, he had never heard from or seen her again until this chance meeting. He'd thought at the time that he'd done the honorable thing, though in hindsight he realized he might have been a bit less callous.

Cordelia's voice tugged his mind back to the present moment. "It hurt me. I'm sure I don't need to tell you that."

"I'm sorry," Mark said with sincerity. "Looking back on it now, I realize it was rather a tactless sort of thing to do, but—" his ringing mobile abruptly punctuated his apology. Fishing the phone from his pocket, he glanced at the display and smiled in relief. Bridget. Thank God. "Excuse me," he said to Cordelia. "Hello?"

"We've just got back," said Bridget.

"Have you done enough damage then?" asked Mark, picturing his wife seated on the bed, surrounded by a myriad of unnecessary clothing items she was now endeavoring unsuccessfully to pack into her already overflowing suitcase.

Bridget Laughed. "Yes. Where are you?"

"In the coffee shop," Mark replied, not untruthfully.

"Have you been there the entire time?"

"Yes, but I'll come straight up, and then we can have dinner."

"See you in a few minutes then," said Bridget.

"Yes, I'll be there directly." Mark ended the call and turned back to Cordelia, under whose intense scrutiny he felt himself beginning to blush. "I must go," he said quickly, rising from his seat. "My family is expecting me."

Cordelia nodded. "Yes, of course."

Mark pressed her hand gently, murmuring, "I do hope things work out for you."

Cordelia offered him a sad smile. "Thank you," she said simply, and with a feeling of intense relief, Mark took his leave.

The scene that met his return to the suite was not far from the one he had envisioned. Bridget was surrounded by piles of clothes and carrier bags as she stood contemplating an impossibly high-heeled shoe.

"I don't think I'll inquire how much that cost," said Mark as he entered the room. "Though I suspect it's about equal to the bill I'm going to be forced to pay when you wind up in accident and emergency with a broken ankle."

Bridget scowled. "Not being a woman, you can't possibly understand the fine art of walking in heels."

"I'm sorry to have to be the one to tell you this, darling, but neither can you." Mark grinned as he watched Bridget continuing to contemplate the shoe cradled in her hand with a look on her face that made him strongly suspect she was considering chucking it at his head. "Was all of this really necessary?" he asked, gesturing to the assortment of newly-purchased clothing items.

"It isn't all Mum's," admitted Anne, somewhat sheepishly.

Mark shrugged. "It's obviously genetic," he sighed, beginning to collect his own possessions in preparation for the following day's departure. As he began to pack, he realized that his mobile appeared to have gone missing.

"Bridget?" he called.

"What?" she poked her head around the open closet door.

"Have you seen my phone?"

"_You're_ asking _me_ where one of your possessions is?"

"Shocking, I know," replied Mark. "Call it a temporary lapse of sanity, but I'm sure the universe will right itself presently."

"Did you have it just now when you came upstairs?" asked Bridget.

"I can't recall, oddly enough," said Mark. "Perhaps I might have left it in the coffee shop."

"Why don't I have a look around here while you run down and check?" Bridget suggested.

Mark nodded. "Yes, I think I shall, just to be certain. I won't be long."

Back downstairs, he searched in vain for the mobile and had just concluded that it must be in the suite after all when he felt a hand on his arm. Cordelia had materialized at his side again. Good God, would this ever end?

"Mark," she said quickly, "I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable just now."

Mark took a deep breath, then turned to face her.

"Cordelia," he said in an undertone, "this is neither the time nor the place to discuss it, and in any case, there's nothing to discuss."

A flash of indignation lit Cordelia's eyes. "Maybe not for you," she said. "But what about me? It was never over for me, Mark. There was never any closure. All these years I've thought about you, wondered what might have happened if things had turned out differently for us—"

"Cordelia, there was never really any 'us'." Mark said gently. "You know that."

"But there might have been," she insisted. "Over the years, I've wondered now and then what it might be like to see you again."

"Well, now you have, and I hope you've satisfied your curiosity," said Mark.

"Mark, didn't you feel anything when you saw me? Anything at all?"

"Cordelia, I'm married."

Cordelia sniffed derisively. "So am I."

"All the more reason why this conversation is inappropriate." Cordelia considered him for a moment; then, before he had time to react, she leaned in and kissed him full on the mouth. Her lips were soft against his, and he recalled, for a fleeting instant, the gentle weight of her head against his shoulder, her fingers twining in his hair, before he placed his hands on her shoulders and gently but firmly put her from him. Behind him he thought he heard a noise like a stifled gasp, and his insides burned with embarrassment at the spectacle he'd just made of himself.

Cordelia raised her eyebrows. "What's wrong?"

"Do you even need to ask?" Mark replied coolly.

"I just thought—" began Cordelia.

"You thought you'd reel me in with your 'wronged wife' story, cry on my shoulder, and get a convenient shag out of it. You think that because your life hasn't turned out precisely the way you expected it would that the world owes you something."

"IT's easy for you to stand there spouting platitudes," Cordelia sneered. "You, with your picture perfect family."

"Easy?" Mark gave a humorless laugh. "Look," he said finally. "This isn't something I would normally have told you, but I was married once before I got to know Bridget. It…well, let's just say things didn't work out." Cordelia reached out as if to lay a hand on his arm, but seemed to think better of it. "For a time, I felt just as you do—let myself wallow in bitterness and resentment. I threw myself into my work, pretended that would suffice to fill the empty spaces in my life. Then Bridget came along—practically bowled me over," he added, a slow smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I hadn't realized just how much I'd retreated into myself until she drew me out. IT was like living in a darkened room and suddenly having someone burst through the door, tearing open the drapes and really forcing me to look at the world for the first time. That was just a part of it though. I could very easily have pulled the covers up over my head and gone back into hiding."

"But you didn't," murmured Cordelia.

"No," said Mark. "I didn't, but only because I began to realize that the reason I wasn't happy was that I'd allowed myself to focus on the past and everything that seemed to have gone wrong in my life. I couldn't erase the past, but in my anger and bitterness, the futility of dwelling on it seemed lost on me. If not for Bridget, I might have come round to that realization eventually, but I'm grateful she came into my life when she did."

"You really do love her, don't you," said Cordelia.

"I do, very much. More than I ever thought possible."

"She's a lucky woman then." Cordelia glanced away, faltered for a moment, then began, "About what I said before—about us—I…" Her voice trailed off, and she lowered her gaze.

"I truly am sorry," Mark murmured. "I owe you a proper apology. I realize I shouldn't have broken things off the way I did, but the truth is that at the time, I honestly thought it was the best way, the least painful way. I realized soon after you left that I wouldn't have been any good for you, not least because I deemed it impractical to pursue a long-distance relationship. I didn't suspect at first that you had begun to want something more serious." "I didn't, not at first," said Cordelia. "Not until. Well…" she let her sentence hang unfinished in the air. 'Not until they'd made love,' Mark thought.

"Yes, well, neither did I," he continued. "It would have been cruel to lead you on, and I thought at the time it was the proper thing to do. Under the circumstances, I don't see how I could have acted differently. I ought not to have let things go as far as they did before you went away, but what was done was done, and I could only move forward."

"Had you known how I felt, had I told you, would it have changed anything?" asked Cordelia. "I always wondered, you see."

Mark hesitated. "It might have changed the way I dealt with the situation," he said finally. "But it wouldn't have altered the end result."

"So you weren't…I mean, you didn't…didn't care for me, then?"

"I wasn't in love with you if that's what you're suggesting," said Mark, unable to disguise the note of irritation in his voice. "But I never claimed to be. I felt terribly guilty about what happened. It was irresponsible of me."

"Well," admitted Cordelia grudgingly, "I can't let you assume all of the responsibility. I suppose I was as much to blame in a way as you were."

"I'm glad to see that fact hasn't escaped you," Mark said dryly.

"I'm sorry, Mark. I ought to have left things alone. It's just that, well, I did wonder about you sometimes. Even though things didn't work out between us, we might still have been great friends."

"Yes, I suppose we might have been," Mark said softly.

"Do you think…do you think we still could be?" she asked.

"I don't know, Cordelia. I think we've burned our bridges, frankly. In any case, you'll forgive me for saying so, but I hardly think that would satisfy you."

Cordelia smiled sadly. "No, perhaps you're right."

After standing in silence for several moments, Mark said, "I really must go."

Cordelia nodded. "Yes," she murmured. She held out her hand as though to shake his, and then, with a sudden softness in her gaze that reminded Mark vividly of the expression he sometimes saw in Bridget's eyes, she leaned in and brushed her lips against his cheek. "Goodbye, Mark," she whispered.

Instinctively he reached out and gently pressed her hand between both of his. "Goodbye, Cordelia."


	4. Chapter 4

Bridget heaved a sigh of relief as, with a tremendous effort, she succeeded in closing the zipper on her suitcase.

"Can you lift that?" asked Anne, attempting to hide her smirk.

"Of course I can," said Bridget. "I have surprising upper body strength." A moment later, she groaned as she attempted to hoist the suitcase onto the floor.

"We might have gone a bit overboard on the shopping spree," laughed Anne.

Bridget shrugged. "We'll let your father get it when he comes back," she concluded.

Anne rolled her eyes. "Poor Dad. Round off his vacation with a good hernia."

"Oh hush. Go and look over your things to see that you haven't forgotten anything. Emma, quit bouncing on the bed and make sure you've packed all of your clothes."

"I can't find Pinky," declared Emma, referring to the battered, stuffed penguin Mark had given her the day Bridget had brought her home from the hospital.

"I'm sure he's here somewhere," Bridget assured her. "We'll look for him together. Annie, be a dear and check that your father hasn't left anything in the closet."

Pinky, it transpired, had been lurking under the sofa. As Bridget retrieved him, she heard Anne calling, "Mum, I think I've just found Dad's mobile." She appeared a moment later with it in her hand, one of his evening jackets draped over her arm.

"Where on earth was it?" asked Bridget.

"I went to go set his jacket with the rest of his things, and I spotted it in the corner of his suitcase. Perhaps he dropped it there without thinking."

Puzzled, Bridget reached for the phone and set it on the bedside table. "It isn't like him to be so absent-minded with things like that." Glancing over at the clock, she added, "He's been gone nearly twenty minutes. Annie, watch your sister for me while I run down and find him. He must be frantic by now."

It took Bridget only a moment to locate her husband when she entered the café, though she was surprised to find him apparently in deep conversation with someone. With his back to her, he didn't observe her approaching. As she drew near, however, she paused when she realized the person with whom Mark was speaking was none other than Cordelia, the woman they'd met on their first evening in Monte Carlo. With mingled curiosity and annoyance, Bridget lingered, trying to catch snatches of their murmured conversation in the general hubbub around her. Disjointed fragments drifted toward her: "Wasn't over…all these years…Saw you again…" and then, so quickly that Bridget hardly had time to process what she saw, she watched as Cordelia wound her arms around Mark's neck as their mouths met. The air seemed to shimmer around her in a dizzying fog; she couldn't think. She couldn't draw breath. A single thought lodged itself in her brain like a paralyzing dart: 'No!' Her hands flew to her mouth, only partially stifling the gasp that had escaped her. Then without pausing to think, she spun on her heel and fled back in the direction of the lifts.

In a daze she returned to the suite, murmured something to the girls about making sure they had all of their belongings, and sought refuge on the balcony. She rested against the railing, gazing down with unseeing eyes at the city below, awash in a glow of late afternoon sunshine. She blinked furiously against the burning sensation that had started in the corners of her eyes; she wouldn't cry, not in front of the children, anyway. She couldn't have seen what she thought she had, and yet she could form no logical explanation to calm the waves of nauseating doubt that swirled in her stomach. She thought over the last several days; of Mark's especial tenderness. He had always been an attentive and loving husband and an affectionate father, though of late his attentions had seemed more demonstrative than usual. In all their years of marriage, Bridget could never have imagined him capable of betrayal, and yet…

"Mum?" Bridget swiped at the moisture gathering on her lashes and turned to see Emma scrutinizing her. "Mum, where's Daddy gone?"

"He'll be back in a few minutes, sweetheart," Bridget assured her in what she hoped was a calm voice. At that moment, the door to the suite opened and Mark entered. Bridget heard him exchanging a few words with Anne before pocketing his mobile, which Bridget had left on the bedside table beside its charger.

"I'm sorry about that," he said, appearing behind Emma. Before Bridget could reply, Emma wrapped her arms around her father and rested her head against his hip. Smiling, he lifted her up, dropping a kiss on the top of her head.

"Have you had a good holiday?" he asked.

Emma nodded. "I wish we could do this all the time," she said earnestly.

"Me too." Mark met Bridget's eyes as he set Emma back on her feet and moved out onto the balcony.

"Is anything the matter?" he asked as Emma scurried off. Bridget said nothing, uncertain how best to begin. Gently Mark placed a finger under her chin and tilted her face up to examine it. "Bridget, you've been crying."

"I haven't," she replied even as the tears began to sting her eyes again.

"You have been. You are. What has happened?"

"I, it's…"

"Darling, tell me," he said, the term of endearment only slightly softening the note of characteristic abruptness in his tone.

Bridget took a deep breath and raised her eyes to meet her husband's, refusing to let the tears fall. "How long has it been going on?" she asked in a whisper, mindful of the girls.

Mark stared down at her, apparently perplexed. "Bridget, what on earth are you talking about? How long has what been going on?"

As Bridget stepped away from him, his hand, which still rested on her cheek, fell to his side. "Mark, you must think I'm an idiot," she hissed. "You. Cordelia. Did you honestly think I wouldn't work out what you were up to?"

Mark continued to stare at her, his face expressionless and immobile as stone. "Will you permit me to ask what evidence you have to support such a ridiculous accusation?"

"I saw you, just now, when you went back to the café claiming to have mislaid your mobile. That was a clever ruse, Mark."

The expression on Mark's face never wavered, but his knuckles whitened as he gripped the rail of the balcony more tightly. "Bridget, that wasn't…you didn't—"

"Don't tell me I didn't see her wound around you like-like some giant squid!" she interrupted. "You aren't going to attempt to deny it."

"I'm not denying Cordelia's…advances," Mark said delicately. "But I am denying that I initiated anything, then, or at all."

"Oh, please," Bridget scoffed. "You planned it all very carefully—even that chance meeting at dinner so I wouldn't suspect a thing. Mark, how could you?" Dimly through the haze of tears she could no longer hide, Bridget saw the pained look in his eyes, but she resolved to stand her ground. "How could you do this to me? To your children?"

"Bridget, are you mad? How many times have I left you and the girls during this trip? Not to mention, when have I ever given you a reason to suspect me of being unfaithful to my family?"

A small, rational voice in the back of Bridget's mind—a voice that had, over the years, begun to sound strangely like Mark—asked her to pause and consider the logic of this question, but she silenced it. "Mark, can you honestly look me in the eye and tell me you never slept with that woman?"

"Of course not," said Mark. "And you wouldn't believe me if I did, but Bridget, that happened—"

"'But'? Mark, do you honestly mean to tell me you're going to stand there and try to justify what you've done? And you call yourself an honorable man?" At last she'd struck at the chink in his armor. At a glance, Mark's expression remained impassive, but Bridget, who could read every curve, every twitch, every line that time had etched into his skin, saw the ripple of rage that passed over his face.

Mark folded his arms and glared at her. When he spoke, his voice vibrated with suppressed anger. "I can't believe you could dare to stand there and accuse me of something so vulgar when you know full well that I know how it feels to be…to have someone…" he broke off, took a deep breath in an endeavor to regain control of his temper, then continued. "I'm sorry about what happened earlier. I'm sorry that you had to witness it. I never intended that."

Bridget gave a mirthless laugh. "Obviously not. I'm sorry I spoiled your carefully constructed plan."

"What I'm trying to say, if you'd keep quiet long enough to let me explain," Mark said through clenched teeth, "is that Cordelia—"

"I don't ever want to hear that woman's name," Bridget said venomously.

Mark let out a sigh of frustration. "This conversation is getting us nowhere, and in any case I don't think this is the time or the place to discuss it," he said, with a significant glance through the door toward Emma and Anne. "Be angry with me if you must. I can't entirely say I blame you, but we mustn't argue in front of the children. When you've calmed down and collected yourself, we can discuss this rationally." And with that, he left Bridget to her painfully confused thoughts.


	5. Chapter 5 and Author Notes

Mark didn't know for how long he'd been asleep; yawning and stretching, he glanced round to find the sitting-room empty and the lights dimmed. He recalled having carried Emma up to bed after she'd fallen asleep watching telly, and he'd returned in the hope of trying to speak to Bridget, but he supposed he'd nodded off.

Sighing heavily, he stood and rubbed the kinks from his back and stole a glance at his watch. It was well past eleven, but he suddenly felt wide awake. He switched off the single lamp that'd been left on and went into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. Dropping into a chair, he lowered his head into his hands and closed his eyes in thought. Hardly anyone had said a word since their return home earlier that day. Supper had been eaten in a painfully awkward silence punctuated by the scraping of cutlery without even Emma's usual chatter. With his return to chambers and a court appearance looming early the following week, Mark had withdrawn to his office following the meal to review papers until he became too bleary-eyed to focus. Rejoining his rather subdued family in the sitting-room, he'd found Bridget curled at the end of the sofa with a book, showing no inclination for conversation. She'd hardly glanced up when Mark had entered the room, nor had she curled up beside him or rested her feet in his lap as she often did. Emma had finally appropriated Bridget's customary spot and, snuggling beneath her father's arm, had fallen asleep with her head against his shoulder. Anne had eventually wandered up to her own room to read, leaving Mark idly flipping channels on the television until he too drifted off, and Bridget had apparently decided to retire without rousing him.

Mark admitted to himself that he was hardly surprised by Bridget's reaction to the unfortunate incident that had occurred with Cordelia, but her accusation stung nonetheless. He didn't think she truly thought him capable of infidelity, but following that initial passionate outburst, her anger had cooled to an icy reserve that chilled his heart. Then again, if she'd calmed down long enough to let him explain that he had only spent that one night with Cordelia, things might not have gone so horribly wrong. Yet, he reflected, he hadn't exactly been forthright with Bridget from the beginning.

So absorbed was he in his reflections that he hadn't observed the cat winding itself around his legs and creeping cautiously into his lap.

"Hello there, old boy," he murmured, surprised at the creature's uncharacteristic show of affection toward him. "I gather Tom saw to it that you didn't go hungry then?" Bertie blinked up at him in response.

Sighing, Mark let his mind wander back to his present predicament. "I wish I hadn't made such a dreadful mess of things," he said, absently stroking Bertie's ears.

"Dad?"

Mark raised his head and turned to see Anne standing in the kitchen doorway, fixing him with a look of tender concern.

"Annie, what are you doing awake?"

"I couldn't sleep, and I heard you moving around down here." She hesitated. "Dad, are you all right?"

Mark offered what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "Yes, love. I'm fine. Go on back to bed." Anne scrutinized her father's face.

"You're not," she said with quiet conviction.

"Of course I am," Mark protested.

"Daddy, you were talking to the cat."

"Nonsense. I was doing no such thing."

"Yes you were. I heard you."

Mark gave the cat an impatient nudge, and Bertie slunk off, casting a reproachful look behind him.

Turning back to his daughter, he said gently, "Go on back to bed. I'm quite all right. I just…need to clear my head a bit."

Anne remained in the doorway for several moments, her arms folded as she kept her gaze fixed on him; then came and stood beside his chair, leaning in to rest her cheek against his. "I just thought you might like some company."

"I would, now you mention it. Come. Sit with me for a few minutes." Without speaking, Anne slid onto Mark's lap—something she'd rarely done even when she was younger. By nature less demonstrative than her mother and sister, Anne's displays of affection were moments Mark cherished all the more for their fleeting rarity. He smiled as she draped her long legs over the arm of the chair and drew her close, the fragrance of lavender enveloping him as he kissed the top of her head.

"You're still afraid to talk to Mum, aren't you," observed Anne.

"Of course not," Mark said quickly.

Anne arched an eyebrow. "Dad, come on. The two of you have hardly said a word to each other since you argued, and you've been sulking since we came home."

Mark scowled.

"I'm not sulking. I'm…brooding."

Anne grinned. "Pardon me, Mr. Darcy."

Mark joined in her laughter. "Thank you, Sweetheart," he said, brushing her cheek with the back of his hand. "I needed that."

Anne hooked an arm around his neck and rested her head against his chest. "So what did you and Mum row about anyway?" she asked.

"That's between your mother and me," Mark said sternly.

Anne shrugged. "Fine. I think I've figured it out for myself anyway. It was about that Cordelia woman." Mark closed his eyes as though praying for strength and thought seriously of switching his tea for something a bit stronger…like a shot of single malt whiskey. "Come on, Dad. I wasn't born yesterday."

"I'm not discussing this," said Mark. Then, before he had time to reconsider, he asked, "Did you overhear us yesterday?"

Anne nodded. "It was sort of hard not to, to be honest," she said unabashedly. "I didn't hear everything," she added quickly. "But I worked it out."

"I'm sorry you had to listen to that, love," Mark whispered, pulling her closer.

Anne shrugged. "You know," she said after a moment of thoughtful silence, "I don't think Mum's really angry with you. I think she just…wishes you'd talk more about things with her sometimes. You know, tell her how you feel. Share things with her. Don't just assume she knows."

Mark sighed; he knew Anne was right. With his natural reserve, he'd often found it difficult to verbalize his emotions; his first inarticulate attempt to express to Bridget the way he felt toward her was still a bit of a soar subject to him (and a source of amusement for the rest of his family). If this particular character trait had sometimes irritated his wife, she had nonetheless accepted it and, indeed, more than made up for it with her own extroverted personality. Nonetheless, he knew it had been the cause of quite a few of their serious disagreements in the course of their marriage.

He and Anne sat in silence for several minutes, until Anne yawned discretely and stood.

"I think I will go to bed," she said. Mark stood as well, wrapping her in his arms. As he bent to kiss her, Anne whispered, "I think Mum's still awake."

Mark held her tightly to his chest for a moment longer. "I love you, Anne Girl," he murmured, pressing his lips to her brow.

"Love you too, Dad," whispered Anne, returning his hug before leaving the kitchen.

Upstairs, Mark found Bridget in the bathroom brushing her teeth. She met his eyes in the mirror above the sink, her gaze wavering before she quickly withdrew it. "Bridget," he said softly.

"What?"

"I…thought perhaps we should talk." Bridget shut off the water and left the bathroom without speaking. Mark followed her into the bedroom and sat down on the edge of the bed beside her. "So talk," she said icily.

"Bridget, please. I know you're still upset. I'm sorry about what happened."

"So that's it then? You're sorry? Are you serious?" exclaimed Bridget, opening the floodgates and releasing a torrent of frustration on Mark's head that she had obviously been biting back with considerable restraint. "Do you know what your problem is, Mark? You're so bloody rational and emotionally distant sometimes! You think just because you don't allow something to affect _your_ feelings, it doesn't affect anyone else's!"

"Really, Bridget, that's a bit unfair," protested Mark.

"Is it? You hardly ever talk about how you feel about anything! I've practically got to drag it out of you half the time."

Mark's jaw tensed. He struggled to maintain a firm grasp on his anger, but it was futile. "Well, perhaps if you'd let me get a word in, I might be able to, but you're always so damn melodramatic. You leap to the most erroneous conclusions without the slightest provocation, and I can't ever get you to listen to reason! You could do with being a bit rational sometimes!" He paused, leveling a smoldering gaze on his wife. "How could you honestly think I'd willfully do anything to jeopardize our marriage and our family? What sort of man, what sort of husband do you think I am?" He broke off, breathing heavily after his outburst. Several moments passed before he spoke again. "This is ridiculous," he said in a dejected tone that pained Bridget to hear. "We aren't getting anywhere. I can't talk to you like this." He rose and moved toward the bathroom with the intention of getting ready for bed, but He paused as he passed Bridget and gazed at her for a long moment, all the words he would have liked to say catching in his throat. "Oh, to Hell with this nonsense!" he exclaimed suddenly, and in two quick strides he crossed to the bed, pulled Bridget roughly into his arms, and took her mouth in a kiss with such force it might have knocked her backward had she not been held so tightly to his chest. Bridget made an unintelligible noise—of pleasure or protest Mark could not tell which; his mouth was hard and demanding against hers. He fisted a hand in her hair as he caught her lower lip between his teeth, his own moan muffled against her mouth. Then Bridget was returning his kiss, clasping her hands behind his head to strain him closer as she moved her body against his in a dizzying rhythm that made him tremble. With lips still engaged and arms and legs intertwined, they tumbled onto the bed together.

"Mark!" gasped Bridget suddenly, glancing toward the door to their bedroom which, thankfully, Mark had foreseen to shut. "Mark, the children." Mark raised a hand and placed it gently over her mouth, his gaze locked on hers with a look of smoldering determination as he quickly began relieving her of her clothing; clearly he would not be deterred. Hastily he tossed her garments into the corner; his own followed in short order. He reached up and began gently kneading her breast, his caresses moving rhythmically in time to her tiny sighs of pleasure. He ran his hands lovingly through her hair and down her back before cupping her arse. Hard and ready and pulsing with desire, he pressed her against his erection. Slowly, teasingly, Bridget began to stroke the insides of his thighs. Her name fell reverently from his lips as he wound his fingers through her hair. Sensing the groan rising in his chest as she caressed him intimately, Bridget raised her head and clamped her mouth on his, biting down on his lower lip by way of reminding him of the necessity for silence. A muffled moan escaped him nonetheless. When he could no longer bear it, Mark quickly repositioned himself, roughly nudging Bridget's legs apart and nestling himself between them. He lowered his head and drew a wet line with his tongue between her breasts. When he felt her clench around him, her hands twisting in the bed sheets, he raised his head and gazed rapturously at her for a long moment—her eyes half-closed and beautifully unfocused, her lips parted in anticipation.

"You are absolutely lovely," he whispered.

Bridget wrapped her legs around his waist. "Stop staring and get on with shagging me then, Mark Darcy."

Mark inclined his head. "Of course. I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours," he said, and he caught her face between his hands and swallowed her cry with his kiss as he entered her.

Some time after, deliciously spent, Mark lay sprawled across Bridget, his head resting on her stomach, his eyes half-closed. He sighed with pleasure as she raked her fingers through his hair.

"I love you," he whispered, daintily running the tip of his tongue along her navel.

"Me too. What you said," Bridget slurred. Mark laughed throatily and closed his eyes.

"Mark?"

"Mmm," he managed by way of response.

"We still have to talk, you know."

He groaned. "Can it wait till I've regained the ability to hold a coherent conversation?"

"No," said Bridget, giving his hair a playful tug. "Contrary to any impression I might have given you, sex actually isn't the answer to everything."

"The hell it's not," he grumbled. Bridget gave his hair another tug.

"Bloody Hell, Bridget. All right then. You win." Sighing, Mark scooted up beside her, propping himself against his pillow. "I suppose I do owe you an explanation, and mind you don't interrupt me this time." And he told her everything about Cordelia: how they'd met, their friendship, the night they'd spent together. When he reached the part in his story about the letter he'd written to Cordelia, Bridget clucked in disapproval.

"You actually put something like that in a letter? Mark, how could you?"

Mark raised an eyebrow. "Could you possibly be experiencing a twinge of sympathy for Cordelia?" He asked.

"No," Bridget said quickly. "It's just, well, that was pretty heartless. So you do have a bit of the fuckwit in you," she said, a teasing glint in her eye despite the severity of her tone.

Mark frowned. "Well, I wouldn't have put it precisely in those terms, but yes, I suppose so."

Bridget shook her head. "I suppose you're going to tell me it was Daniel's idea."

"Not exactly," replied Mark. "Though he thought it was a good one."

"That should have been your first clue," said Bridget, rolling her eyes. "Incidentally," she added, "what was his reaction when you told him you'd slept with her?"

Mark tried to push away the recollection her question tugged to the forefront of his mind: waking up with Cordelia in his bed, groping desperately in the fog that obscured his brain for some tendril of memory, stumbling blearily from his room and collapsing in a heap onto the sofa, his throbbing head cradled in his hands as he confessed everything to Daniel. "He laughed at me, actually—said it was about time. I was bloody annoyed with him to tell the truth. After all the times I dragged him home and cleaned him up, he might at least have returned the favor."

"You aren't trying to shift the blame now, are you?" asked Bridget.

"No, of course not," said Mark. "But that's neither here nor there. Anyway, Cordelia sent me what I dimly recall was a rather venomous reply to my letter, which I know I deserved, and then I never saw or heard from her again until we met in Monte Carlo. After a while I thought she'd forgotten, or moved forward, at least. I was wrong, obviously."

Bridget tilted her head up to gaze directly at him, biting her lip as she appeared to consider her next question. "If you'd known how she felt—" she began, echoing Cordelia's question.

"It wouldn't have changed anything," said Mark, reaching down to curl his fingers around hers. "I told her as much. You're everything to me, Bridget. You know that," Mark whispered, cupping her face in his hands.

"It was just, when I saw you together like that, I thought…" she blinked and looked away.

"As I said, I don't entirely blame you for being upset. I knew what Cordelia was after when she sought me out, and I should never have let the encounter spiral out of control like that."

"Still, it was wrong of me. I mean, it did look suspicious, but still. I misjudged you. I know you'd never, never—you know…" Bridget's voice trailed off, and she swiped at a tear that began to trickle down her cheek.

"I was terribly hurt," said Mark. "I'm sure I don't need to tell you that. The very idea that you could suspect I would even consider being unfaithful to you was utterly unthinkable. The thought that somehow I might have done something, anything, to shake your trust in me—in us…well…" He swallowed and averted his gaze.

"Why didn't you just tell me all of this that first night?" Bridget asked.

"I don't know, exactly," Mark admitted. "On the one hand, I honestly didn't think it mattered. There wasn't anything between us; there hadn't been for years, but perhaps there was a part of me that thought you might be a bit jealous, and I'd rather not have dealt with it because," he paused, "because truthfully, I'm not especially proud of what I did to Cordelia. It wasn't any worse than what another man might have done in my situation at that age, but I'd always thought I was better than that. I invested considerable energy in trying to forget it. I suppose, in a way, I was ashamed of myself."

"Oh, Mark," whispered Bridget, reaching up and tenderly pulling his head to her breast.

He raised a hand and brushed away the tears still glistening on her lashes with the pad of his thumb. "I know perhaps I don't say this as often as I should, and after so many years I suppose I took it for granted that I didn't need to. Bridget, all that matters to me in the world is you; you, and me, and the girls…and that nuisance of a cat," he added with a grin.

Laughing, Bridget leaned in and kissed him. Resting back against her pillows, she asked suddenly, "So it was just that one time? You and Cordelia?"

Mark rolled his eyes. "For Heaven's sake, Bridget."

"I'm just curious," she insisted.

"Yes, it was just that one time." He paused, then added, "I don't think she was terribly impressed with my sexual prowess, if you want the truth. I can't recollect much about that night—"

"Because you were drunk," Bridget interrupted.

"I…over-imbibed, yes," Mark corrected.

Bridget laughed. "Like I said. You were drunk."

"Fine. IN any case, I don't think I was particularly adept in my lovemaking."

"I've never had any complaints," said Bridget.

Mark smiled. "Yes, well, let's just say I've refined my technique. Practice makes perfect, you know."

"You'd think after so many years she might finally have grown breasts," Bridget observed as Mark reached up to switch off the light.

With a groan, he dropped his forehead to hers and laughed. "Oh, Bridget, I do love you."

"Just promise me one thing," she whispered as they slipped between the sheets.

"What's that?"

"Next time we go on holiday, I'm in charge of the arrangements."

Mark rolled onto his side and pulled her to his chest. "Fine with me."

The End

Notes

Little Miss Whoops (2003) is a character from the "Little Miss" series by Roger Hargreaves.

Le Grill de Hotel Paris does not actually offer Crème Brulee on their dessert menu, but as it is an oft-cited fact in the Firth Fandom community that crème Brulee is a favorite dessert of Colin's, I couldn't resist paying him tribute here.


End file.
